Safe At Hawk's Landing

“It looks deserted,” Harrison said.

“We need to check inside the spaces,” Lucas said. “You’d be shocked at some places traffickers hold women and children. Boats, storage containers, old barns, the back of cargo vans and trucks. Damn inhumane.”

Harrison’s mouth tightened as he closed the distance to the warehouses. “Hard to imagine people buying and selling children and women like they’re cattle.”

Except they might treat cattle with more care. Although if selling the girls at auction to the highest bidder was their game, they would try to preserve the girls’ physical appearance.

No visible bruising or injuries.

They’d probably use drugs to keep them under control.

Gears ground, brakes squeaking as Harrison slowed the SUV and swung to a stop. Lucas eased his car door open and slid from the seat, senses honed as he scanned the area between the warehouses.

He and Harrison both pulled their guns, and he braced for trouble as they walked past the charred van then toward the warehouses. Harrison shined a pocket flashlight across the ground.

Lucas did the same, then motioned to Harrison that he spotted tire tracks. He veered right to check the warehouse on the end, while Harrison went left. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he approached, and he paused to listen at the doorway. He expected it to be locked, but the bolt that had held it closed had been cut and sat in a pile of weeds to the side.

He leaned against the door edge and listened, hoping to hear the sound of girls’ voices, something to indicate they were inside.

But he heard nothing.

Frustration knotted his stomach as he eased the door open and aimed the light inside. The space was empty.

Dammit.

Still, he inched inside to search in case there was a room, a box, or a cage hidden in the darkened space.

* * *

CHARLOTTE FADED INTO a restless sleep and dreamed that a reporter was in the room snapping photographs of her. She woke, her pulse hammering.

Inhaling to calm her raging heart, she listened for signs the man had returned.

As a child, she’d been self-conscious of her port-wine birthmark. That image of her remained locked in her head, and reminded her that she had once been debilitated by it. No one had wanted her as their child. People had stared and made cruel remarks. Other children had been afraid that if they touched her, that stain would rub off on them.

Tears pricked at her eyes. She blinked furiously to stem them, searching for some semblance of light in the room, but blackness prevailed. Still, she ran her fingers over her cheek, remembering the pain of looking different and wondering if her face or eyes were scarred or appeared unusual.

If the morning paper or news would show her lying in bed, weak and vulnerable, the details of her sordid childhood exposed for the world to see.

Guilt and shame quickly overrode her concern—how could she possibly worry about her looks or people reading about her past when her students needed her? No telling what they were going through.

Her breathing turned erratic again, and she suddenly felt like her chest was going to explode. Pain shot through her, stifling and frightening. One of the monitors went off, the beeping more rapid with the tune of her breathing.

The door screeched open, then footsteps. “Ms. Reacher, I’m here.” Haley’s voice, soothing and calm. Her hand gently brushed Charlotte’s. “Did something happen?”

Charlotte shook her head. “A nightmare.”

“That’s understandable. You’ve been through hell,” the nurse said.

Charlotte gasped for a breath again, that tight sensation returning.

“Just try to relax, take slow even breaths.”

“What’s happening?” Charlotte asked, her voice cracking as she clawed for air.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Haley said softly. “It’s not uncommon, especially after suffering a trauma. Try to imagine yourself in a happy place.”

Charlotte nodded miserably and forced herself to do as Haley instructed. Slow breaths. Think of a happy place.

Her studio. The paints. The vibrant colors. Reds and blues and purples, shades of violet. Yellow, like the sunflowers she adored. Then pastels. The pale yellow of the moon on a cool night when she gazed at the stars. The light blue of the sky on a sunny day, of the ocean at sunset.

Except the attack had tainted the image of the studio. Her happy place was no longer tranquil or peaceful, but shrouded in the horror of what had happened.

No, she couldn’t let those men destroy her place, or the good that had happened in the studio.

The girls were painting, laughing, talking, listening to music. Their hearts were opening as they poured emotions onto the canvases, their spirits lifting as they began to trust her and each other.

“It’s going to be all right,” Haley said.

How could it be when she might never see her students again?

* * *

LUCAS SCANNED THE interior of the warehouse space, but it appeared to be empty. Knowing that appearances could be deceiving, he crept inside, senses alert in case the girls had been locked inside a cage or an underground space.

It had happened before. A woman buried in a box beneath the ground. They hadn’t found her in time.

He prayed it was different for these young girls.

The flashlight painted a thin stream across the cement flooring, and he inched through the space, crossing to the back. Several barrels were pushed against the wall.

His heart raced as he rapped his knuckles on the exterior. A hollow sound echoed back. Still, he pried open the tops and searched each one.

Empty.

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Satisfied the space was clean, he crept through the back door and outside, then searched the bushes and grounds until he reached the middle warehouse.

Just as made it to the door, a screeching sound came from the interior.

Pulse jumping, he braced his gun and slipped through the opening. It was pitch-dark inside. The noise...there it was again.

A high-pitched wail.

Holding his breath, he aimed his flashlight along the wall, searching for the source. A wooden crate was pushed to the back.

Dear God. Was someone inside?